SPRING. 



27 



touch, unlocks 'the treasures of the heart. Only the peeping of a frog; 

 but where in all the varied voices of the night, where, even among the 

 great chorus of nature's sweetest music, is 

 there another song so lulling in its dreamy 

 melody, so full of that emotive charm which 

 quickens the human heart ? How often in 

 the vague spring twilight have I yielded to 

 the strange, fascinating melancholy awaken- 

 ed by the frog s low murmur at the water's 

 edge ! How many times have I lingered 

 near some swampy roadside bog, and let 

 these little wizards weave their mystic spell 

 about my willing senses, while the very air 

 seemed to quiver in the fulness of their 

 sons ! I remember the tangle of tall and 

 withered rushes, through whose mysterious 

 depths the eye in vain would strive to pen- 

 etrate at the sound of some faint splash or 

 ripple, or perhaps at the quaint, high-keyed 

 note of some little isolated hermit, piping 

 in his sombre solitude. I recall the first 

 glimpse of the rising moon, as its great 

 golden face peered out at me from over 

 the distant hill, enclosing half the sum- 

 mit against its broad and luminous 

 surface. Slowly and steadily it ft 

 seemed to steal into view, until, 

 risen in all its fulness, I caught its 

 image in the trembling ripples at 

 the edge of the soggy pool, where 

 the palpitating water responded to 

 the frog's low, tremulous mono- 

 tone. Higher and higher it sails 

 across the inky sky, its glow now 

 changed to a silvery pallor, across 

 whose white halo, in a floating film, 

 the ghostly clouds glide in their silent 



-". l-^lr^Vs 



flight. 



A dull tinkling of some distant 



VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



